Interface
by Zhailei
Summary: Being human is all about making connections, and he's pretty sure there are no wires underneath his skin. Spoilers up to episode 3:20 - Crossroads, Part Two. Anders.


_Please could you stop the noise, I'm trying to get some rest_

Her gaze lingers a little too long when she passes him in the hallways, and he tries to pretend not to notice. It's almost like he can feel her, even when he isn't looking, and it gets to the point where looking at her is less intimate than not looking.

Roslin's been on _Galactica_ almost constantly since Kara came back, which means Tory's there, too. He tells himself that it was nothing more than a few quick fraks, something to keep his mind off Kara and everything else, just another warm body. But thinking about that does nothing for his self control, even if tells himself that Kara's _back_ now, that he doesn't need her any more (that he never did).

Flight training should keep him busy, but everything's kind of a mess right now, and it doesn't take up nearly enough of his time. He flies every chance he gets, though, and he can't really say he's surprised when he gets to the bar afterwards and she's there.

The radio's on, but he doesn't bother listening to the political commentary and what amounts to Colonial gossip. Every so often, he hears the strains of what was once a long-forgotten tune, and it's then that he looks at her.

There's no need to speak as they finish their drinks almost in tandem, and he gets up without glancing at her again. In the rack, his hands move over her skin, warm and soft as if they were both human, and he doesn't think about machines and programming as he kisses her, runs his hands through her hair, and lays her down on the bed.

-

_With your opinion which is of no consequence at all_

He'd wanted to run her through, when Helo had first told him. "She's with me," he'd said, and then, later, "she's one of us."

Sam wanted to call bullshit, at the time. Cylons weren't people, divided up into shades of good and bad, bound up in conscience and morality and human emotions; the friendly Cylon sounded like a frakked up children's fairy tale.

Later, he thinks he's man enough to admit he was wrong. But only a little. Sharon Valerii - Agathon, now - is the exception, unique among a sea of clones. He doesn't mistake any of the others for her, and he doesn't feel guilty when he sees her face erupting in a sea of flames. It's saved his life on more than one occasion.

But he embraces her without hesitation when she comes back for them on Caprica, because Helo was a fool, but he was right all the same - she's one of them. And right now, she's his best link back to Kara, and to humanity, screwed up as it is.

He's still not sure a machine can be good, but maybe it can be faulty, and that's good enough for him.

-

_Why don't you remember my name?_

He isn't sure if he's getting drunk, any more, or just frying his circuits. He's pretty sure it doesn't matter, either way; the end result is the same, the familiar haziness tending to oblivion that's his only salvation right now.

Tyrol doesn't want to go back to his wife, and Sam doesn't have a wife to go back to. They don't talk about it, or about what happened in that room, or about the familiar chords they don't quite hear over the static of the radio, and if they sometimes speak in words that sound more like lyrics than conversation, that's just another thing they can add to the list.

He doesn't have to say anything before Tyrol reaches for the bottle to refill his glass. He drinks deep, and thinks that talking is overrated.

Sometimes Tyrol will walk him around the deck, run him through the finer points of Viper repairs and Raptor maintenance, carefully sidestepping talk of circuitry and wiring. He knows a Cylon raider once sat there, a trophy of Kara's from before he even met her, and they don't talk about that, either. Sometimes they just sit, not saying anything at all, and hum along to the music no-one else can hear, the invisible thread that binds them together.

"Said the joker to the thief," he murmurs, and Tyrol just nods.

-

_I guess he does_

He doesn't need Lee's sympathy, and he wouldn't have accepted if that's what he thought this was. "It's just a game," Lee says, and that's not quite right, either, but it's close enough not to matter either way.

Neither of them are winning, exactly; that was always Kara, and her seat lies empty between them as the stakes pile higher on the table. When Lee's hand brushes his as he reaches for the bottle, he doesn't pull away, and it's easier than it should be to believe that the taste of ambrosia on Lee's tongue is a fair substitute.

Nobody's around to see when they both stand up, reaching for each other half-blindly. He doesn't look up; doesn't see Lee, or Kara, or the way his grief must be reflected in the other man's eyes, doesn't see anything but the flash of red beneath his eyelids.

Lee's hands are rough on his skin, and so were Kara's, he supposes, but there's none of her softness underneath, only urgency, and need, and maybe something like understanding. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and that's right, he thinks, as much as any of this is. The cards lie forgotten on the table as Lee pushes him back against the wall, and if it should bother him that Lee's thinking about his wife as he moans, loud and low, he's not even sure it registers. It's not about what either of them want _(Kara)_; when he closes his eyes, he knows this is mourning, and he can believe that Lee's sweat mixed with his almost smells like her.

-

_Come on rain down on me_

He can't breathe for a full minute when she steps onto the deck, and it's only when she's embracing him, when she's there and she's _real_ in his arms, that he allows himself to believe it.

Kara came back.

He doesn't wonder how, at first, even when Adama is leading her away, and her smile, soft and impossibly serene, fades from view. Later, he does, and a possibility that once would have horrified him is something he clings to, even when she still has the scar on her stomach and her tattoo _(like his)_ is still etched on her skin. Because if he's right, none of it matters.

Not when she wakes up screaming, babbling about Earth and how she just _knows._ Not about the looks Tory shoots him in the hallway, or Tyrol, or Tigh, or Lee. Not the music that floats in his memory, humming across his nerves, and not what they said in that room that can't be taken back.

He doesn't say it; just strokes her hair, and tells himself it's enough that she's alive as his fingers dance over her skin. But he thinks it, and he isn't sure if it's hope or dread or something else entirely.

_She could be a Cylon._


End file.
